Jake was dying. His wife, Becky, was maintaining a candlelight vigil by his side. She held his fragile hand, tears running down her face. Her praying roused him from his slumber. He looked up and his pale lips began to move slightly. “My darling Becky,” he whispered.

“Hush, my love,” she said. “Rest. Shhh, don’t talk.”

He was insistent. “Becky,” he said in his tired voice. “I . . . I have something I must confess to you.”